


If the Sock Fits

by Blizzard_Fire



Series: Brucemas 2020 [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adorable Bruce Banner, Bruce Banner Feels, Character Study, Domestic Avengers, F/M, Fluff, Laundry, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Avengers (2012), Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blizzard_Fire/pseuds/Blizzard_Fire
Summary: Natasha tries to do her laundry when the others aren’t around. They've all spilled blood in battle, but she spills more than most. Wouldn’t want to put Tony off his strawberry smoothies.At the sound of soft footsteps behind her, she calmly wraps the ends of the scarf around her hands. Garrotting is one of her favourite methods to take down a mark. Quick, easily improvised and leaves no blood to clean up.She turns to see Bruce hesitating in the doorway, rucksack hefted over one shoulder. 'Come here often?' he asks wryly. His eyes dart to the scarf in her hands before she plunges it back into the water.Natasha and Bruce bond over laundry, and accidentally swap clothes in the process. Natasha decides to have a little fun with it.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov
Series: Brucemas 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020373
Comments: 15
Kudos: 65
Collections: Brucemas 2020





	If the Sock Fits

**Author's Note:**

> Brucemas 2020 Day 2: Bruce/Natasha, Green
> 
> This is my first attempt at a proper Brutasha fic (though I wrote [a platonic one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251036) a little while ago) so I did some reading and really enjoyed their dynamic. This fic took on a life of its own whilst writing; I loved writing Natasha in this and figuring out how her mind works.
> 
> *waves shyly at Brutasha fandom*

Even the best assassins spend a lot of time washing the blood out of their clothes.

Natasha sighs before plunging her hands into the freezing water to wring the life out of an unfortunate white scarf. There’s a reason why she usually wears red and black, and it has nothing to do with a personal sense of style. Well, maybe a little bit.

One of the perks of moving in at Stark Tower is the laundry room. Silver washing machines line up along one wall, each equipped with all the latest in cutting-edge laundry tech. A long, stylish wooden bench stretches the length of the room to complete the "laundromat but fancier" vibe. Natasha spends a lot of mornings here.

 _'Your first cycle of washing is complete, Ms Romanov,'_ JARVIS announces.

'Run it again. Another cold wash.' She grabs the bottle by the sink and pours some more hydrogen peroxide on the stain.

Natasha tries to do her laundry when the others aren’t around. They've all spilled blood in battle, but she spills more than most. Wouldn’t want to put Tony off his strawberry smoothies.

At the sound of soft footsteps behind her, she calmly wraps the ends of the scarf around her hands. Garrotting is one of her favourite methods to take down a mark. Quick, easily improvised and leaves no blood to clean up. If you’re skilled enough, you can take down anyone provided you catch them unawares.

She turns her head to see Bruce hesitating in the doorway, rucksack hefted over one shoulder. 'Come here often?' he asks wryly. His eyes dart to the scarf in her hands before she plunges it back into the water.

Since they all moved in, Natasha has kept her distance from Bruce. She's polite enough in company, but she never sits next to him at team meetings or tries to make conversation at lunch. They respect each other's space and it suits her just fine. In fact, this is the first time they’ve been alone together since Hulk attacked her on the Helicarrier.

Bruce seems to realise this too and he shrinks back a little, an apologetic smile twisting up one corner of his mouth. ‘I can come back later.’

She stares him down. ‘Last I checked there was more than one washing machine, Doc.’ And she resumes scrubbing at her scarf.

After a pause, she hears him enter the room. Soft, light steps, but with a slight shuffle. She wonders if that's deliberate, telegraphing his movements so as not to startle her. Sweet of him to assume she's afraid of him. No, it's not Bruce she's afraid of.

The cold water is starting to make her fingers numb. She wrings out the scarf and holds it up to the light. There’s still a barely-there tinge of brown, making it unusable for any future undercover work.

Bruce busies himself filling up a washing machine. Even on a Saturday, he’s dressed in a smart yellow shirt and light grey pants. The happy colour scheme doesn’t complement his ruffled hair or the tired droop of his shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches him load up each piece of clothing carefully as though afraid of tearing it.

The scarf is a lost cause. She pours on some more hydrogen peroxide and then drapes it over the tap to soak. Her own fault. She’d been too sloppy, stood too close when she cut the mark’s throat.

_‘The usual settings, Doctor Banner?’_

‘Thanks, JARVIS.’

The machine thrums to life, whirling Bruce's clothes into a blur of grey. Natasha has commandeered three machines: one contains her muddy jumpsuit, another is stuffed with pyjamas and gym clothes, and the third is full of her bloodied assassin disguises. The scarf was too delicate to machine wash, but it doesn’t seem salvageable anyway.

‘That’s an unfortunate choice of colour,’ says Bruce, straightening up and nodding at the scarf.

She sighs. ‘Needed something distinctive that would stand out in a crowd.’ She’d intended for the mark to tail her. Since she’d been posing as an inexperienced new hire at his company, the white had seemed appropriate. The corrupt businessman clearly had a thing for meek, shy women. Once she’d gotten him alone he’d found out just how “meek” she really was.

Bruce stares at the scarf for a moment, puts on his glasses and then picks it up.

Natasha resists the urge to snatch it back. Out in the field, sometimes your disguise is your only weapon and she’s learned to be protective of that. Instead, she watches coolly as he runs the material through his fingers, studying the stain. His brow furrows. She waits for the expected questions: “who was he?”, “how did he die?”

But what he says instead is, ‘Have you tried baking soda?’

‘It’s… less effective.’

He shrugs. ‘Lemon juice and salt sometimes works.’

‘I’m trying to clean it, not season it.’

He laughs, a forceful huff of air. Like he’s never laughed before and it hurts his throat. ‘Crushed aspirin helps too.’

Their fingers brush as he hands it back to her. The glasses soften his gaze, hiding the dark circles under his eyes. She wonders if that’s deliberate too. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she says eventually.

Bruce just nods and then sidles over to the bench. He produces a book from his battered rucksack and reads in silence. They don’t speak again, but after a while the quiet starts to feel peaceful rather than awkward.

When Natasha's washing is done, she piles it into the two enormous laundry bags she brought down with her, throwing the scarf in there too. Bruce glances up to watch her go, smiles that strange, sad smile of his and resumes reading his book.

Later, Natasha tries the crushed aspirin trick. The stain is gone in minutes.

As it turns out, it’s exhausting being an Avenger. Natasha is still expected to keep up with her SHIELD work on top of saving New York from aliens every other week. And alien blood is even _harder_ to clean out of your clothes. Most mornings are spent in the laundry room with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some boxes of aspirin.

At Tony’s insistence, they start having movie nights and Takeout Thursdays. She still doesn’t actively seek Bruce out, but sometimes they share a doubtful glance at a team meeting, or an amused look when Thor is rambling on about the bilgesnipe he killed last week. He’s her teammate now, like it or not. As the weeks pass, she minds it a little less. Even Hulk has started to be a little more sweet-tempered. And if you can forget that the awkward scientist can turn into a building-destroying angry giant if you piss him off… he’s kinda nice.

It’s a stretch to say that Natasha feels at home – she’s never felt at home anywhere – but she feels… comfortable here. It’s nice to return to the same bed you left that morning.

But then SHIELD decides that she’s needed in four different places across the globe and she’s back to solo missions, kicking ass in a variety of impractical outfits. She returns to the tower only to throw her used clothing on the floor and re-pack her bag before setting off again. Whilst she’s away, she follows the Avengers’ world-saving antics and bitterly misses the solidarity of a team.

A box of aspirin is much more portable than a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. She’ll have to thank Bruce for that.

By the time her missions are over, she has nothing left to wear but the clothes on her back. Natasha peels off her dirt-smudged jeans and t-shirt and throws them in the wash along with an armful of clothes off her bedroom floor that she stuffed in a sports bag. Then she sits on the bench in her underwear and glares as she waits for it to finish.

In Natasha's line of work, clothing is everything. It’s both armour and weapon, lending camouflage or drawing the eye. Every morning she looks into her closet and decides who she wants to be that day.

Without clothes, she’s not sure who she’s supposed to be right now.

She recognises the footsteps this time, but she doesn’t look up. Bruce is no assassin but he has an uncanny way of reading people. And Natasha has just walked into a very communal space and let her guard down.

The footsteps falter. No doubt he’s noticed that she’s sitting here in nothing but her underwear. But then he comes closer and the muscles in her back tense. She feels terribly vulnerable right now, and that makes her dangerous. If he touches her he’ll break his nose, Hulk or no Hulk.

When she directs her glare towards him, a cup is hovering by her face.

Bruce smiles sympathetically. ‘Bad day?’

It takes her a moment to disengage her fight-or-flight and take the cup. ‘Bad month,’ she confirms, taking a cautious sip (not poisoned, she confirms after carefully rinsing it around her mouth). It’s hot chocolate, but the proper stuff, darker and richer than the powdered crap Clint usually buys. ‘Thanks,’ she says softly. Is he trying to bribe her? Positive reinforcement can build relationships faster, and she’s done it herself to get closer to her targets. Or maybe he’s just trying to be nice and she doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Bruce is already moving away, dumping his rucksack on the floor. A thick woolly blanket is wrapped around him like a cloak, and only his bare feet stick out at the bottom.

‘What’s under the blanket, Doc?’ she asks silkily.

He turns and raises an eyebrow. ‘Some really sexy Hawaiian shorts.’

Natasha finds herself smiling back at him. Maybe her guard really is down, but after weeks of pretending to be someone else, it’s nice to talk to someone familiar. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘JARVIS told me you were back.’ His brown eyes flick down her body and he frowns. ‘Have you been to medical yet?’

She lifts her shoulder experimentally, feeling the pull of the stitches she did herself. ‘I’m good. Once I’ve slept for twelve hours I’ll be even better.’ A shower would be a good idea too.

Bruce looks unconvinced, but doesn’t press the issue. As he crouches down to load up a washing machine, the blanket falls off his shoulders. Underneath, he’s wearing a faded AC/DC t-shirt… and a pair of neon Hawaiian shorts.

‘Wow, you weren’t kidding.’ Natasha stares. They’re even patterned with pineapples wearing sunglasses. ‘Forget Tony, clearly we were sleeping on the _true_ king of style around here.’

Bruce blushes. ‘I’m not having a midlife crisis. This was the only thing I could find that was clean.’

Natasha glances at the empty rucksack waiting beside him and suddenly feels guilty. Bruce has been living out of that rucksack – he had it with him when she found him in India – and he can fit his entire wardrobe in it. ‘I thought Tony and Steve took you shopping?’

He winces. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been following the news, but the Hu – the other guy has been in demand lately. I can’t replace them fast enough. Tony’s helping me work on a solution, something stretchy enough that won’t rip when I change, but until then I have to stock up on pants that I don’t mind seeing torn to shreds.’ He gestures at the silly shorts.

Bruce never dresses down. He doesn’t wear anything that doesn’t have buttons somewhere, and he won’t walk anywhere in bare feet. Yet here he is, looking like a rumpled surfing instructor. Like Natasha, he has no armour here.

‘It suits you,’ Natasha says. Then she worries that’s too sincere and adds, ‘Ever considered a career as a model?’

He grins. A quick flash of teeth, then it’s gone. ‘It was my backup plan after rogue gamma physicist.’ And he thrusts his hands into the pockets, crosses one foot over the other and stares moodily to one side. It’s surprisingly photogenic. He’s all knobbly knees and hairy legs, but in that moment there’s something modestly charming about him.

‘Mister November, right there.’

He smirks. ‘Too much demand. They wouldn’t be able to print the calendars fast enough.’ It’s a different brand to his usual self-deprecating humour, more ironic than sardonic. It’s a good look on him.

When he picks up the blanket and approaches her with it, this time she doesn’t tense up. ‘You look cold,’ he says, holding it out.

Natasha takes it gratefully and wraps it around herself. Not because she’s cold or embarrassed, but because she’s unguarded in her interactions right now, and she doesn’t want to do something she’ll regret later. It doesn’t help that she barely slept on the plane home.

Bruce sits down a respectful distance away and reads an article on his phone. Natasha sips her hot chocolate and admits to herself that she’s glad to be back. She’s missed her weird crew of clashing personalities and the quirky version of domesticity they bring.

A short while later, Natasha is retrieving her clean, warm, freshly-dried clothes and eagerly anticipating passing out in her softest pyjamas. Beside her Bruce does the same, delicately folding everything so it will fit in his rucksack.

Natasha holds out the blanket. Bruce shakes his head. ‘You need it more than me.’

‘If Clint sees you in those shorts, you’re dead meat.’ She presses it into his hands. Bruce has done two nice things for her since he came down here. She draws the line at three.

He takes it with a reluctant nod. ‘If you want those stitches redoing, let me know.’

‘I’ve survived worse,’ she says dryly. ‘Goodnight, Doctor.’ She grabs her bag and leaves the room. By now it’s nearly 10am, and the others will be on the communal floor. Luckily, the elevator is empty and she makes it to her room uncontested. She’s going to sleep so hard she forgets what day it is.

But when she upends the bag onto the bed, she doesn’t see her pyjamas. Instead, there are brown and grey pants, knitted sweaters and coloured shirts, all meticulously folded.

Natasha groans. Her gym bag is the same colour as Bruce's rucksack, and she hadn’t been looking when she grabbed it. All she has in her apartment are mission clothes: jeans and pants and jackets and lingerie. Nothing she’d like to sleep in tonight, and she hates the vulnerability of sleeping naked.

She’s stuffing it all back in when a flash of blue catches her eye. It’s a t-shirt, soft from frequent use. A flaky slogan reads: _If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate._ She’s never seen Bruce wear it but the threading around the sleeves is pulling loose, there’s a hole in the left shoulder and a scorch mark on the hem. It’s well-travelled and well-loved, clearly a memento of his time on the run. If Bruce was an item of clothing, he’d probably be a tattered science joke t-shirt.

Natasha puts it on. It hangs loose on her, and it smells vaguely floral. JARVIS offers a variety of detergents but she usually opts for the unscented ones. Immediately, she feels calmer. She imagines Bruce wearing it in his room, maybe doing yoga or drinking tea or falling asleep in it. Maybe it’s a little weird to borrow without asking, but she’s exhausted and past caring.

She curls up in bed and falls asleep almost immediately. It’s the best sleep she’s had all month.

The next morning she heads down to breakfast, still wearing the shirt.

In the living room, Clint eyes her appraisingly then looks to Tony. ‘You owe me ten bucks.’

Natasha gives him the finger. ‘Fuck off, Barton.’ She opens the refrigerator and grabs a chocolate protein shake, ignoring their smirks.

Bruce is sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he pores over some notes. She stands in front of him and waits. When he finally looks up, his eyes widen. ‘Um, where did you get that?’

‘You have my bag.’ She watches him squirm with some amusement. ‘Why do you have this, anyway?’

‘I… thought it was funny,’ he admits bashfully. He can’t seem to look away from her. ‘Looks good on you,’ he says eventually.

‘Well, I’m holding it to ransom until you give me my clothes back.’ She unslings Bruce's rucksack from her shoulder. ‘Here’s yours.’

‘Thanks.’ He stands up. ‘I - I’ll go and get it. Sorry.’ And looking distinctly flustered, he leaves the room.

Clint leans over. ‘You are _so_ fucking him.’

Natasha snatches an apple from the fruit bowl and hurls it at him. He catches it effortlessly, winks, and takes a bite.

Clothing can tell you a lot about a person: their social status, their occupation, their hobbies. Most importantly, how they wish to be perceived.

The Avengers each have their own sense of style. Tony wears sharp suits like Natasha wears sharp knives, but dressed down he loves faded band t-shirts. Clint loves old plaid shirts and wears the same ones for years, and his jeans all have holes in the knees. Steve wears blue like it’s the one familiar thing he can always choose from today’s modern styles. Thor likes dark jeans and bright hoodies, and she’s never seen him wear a sock.

Out of all of them, Bruce is perhaps the most conscious of how he appears to others. As his wardrobe constantly grows and shrinks, she sees a trend of smart shirts and plain pants. He favours earthy colours: browns, greys and beiges, with the occasional splash of purple or yellow.

He never wears green.

She’s in the laundry room crunching up some aspirin when she hears Bruce come in. ‘Whatever you’re going to say, Clint’s already said it.’ There’s underwear draped all around the sink and over the top of one of the washing machines. All are lacy, some are barely more than scraps of material. All of them are bloodstained.

Bruce falters, clearly surprised, but then he takes it in his stride. ‘I have the opposite problem of not _enough_ clothes, so I guess we’re even.’

‘Yeah, doesn’t that hurt? When you Hulk out?’ No wonder Hulk’s pissed when he emerges. ‘Must be bad enough waking up and your pants are too tight.’

Bruce clears his throat. ‘I uh, don’t tend to remember that part. Maybe that’s for the best.’ As he loads up a washing machine, Natasha realises that she’s never seen him wash any underwear. If something would inconvenience you in battle, it’s best to just ditch it entirely. She can understand that.

Whilst the bulk of her clothes are on their third cold cycle of misery, her more delicate attire must be cleaned by hand. She can sense him trying not to stare. Sexy underwear is just part of the personality she puts on whenever she attends fancy parties that involve some stabbing. And there had been a lot of parties lately. She’d had to go back to her room and change several times because some people just couldn’t die neatly. Poison would have been better but too risky.

She mixes the aspirin powder with water and starts smearing it on all the stains. ‘I have to ask. Why do you know so much about cleaning blood stains?’

‘Plenty of chemicals cause stains. A lot of it comes from personal experience.’ He finishes loading up and straightens. ‘I lived in Portugal for a while, and I stayed with a family there. A single mother with eight daughters. She had quite a few tricks.’ Today he’s wearing a stormy grey sweater and he looks peaceful and calm. How much of that is a front? She’s never sure what he’s thinking because he’s so good at hiding it, but she’d like to think that he seems more relaxed around her lately.

She’s a little disappointed that the science t-shirt didn’t make a reappearance today, and she can’t explain why. But Bruce is such a gentle presence, and she wishes she could take some of it with her.

When he’s not looking, she steals a sock. For the rest of the day she wears it inside her sneaker and feels strangely calm. Or maybe she’s gotten that confused with the memory of Bruce's sleepy smile as she left the laundry room earlier.

It turns out that Bruce's silly t-shirt was a gateway drug, because over the next few weeks Natasha becomes a shameless clothing thief.

Socks are easiest to get away with. She borrows Clint’s Pikachu socks, and Steve’s fluffy blue bed socks, and Tony’s Iron Man socks. When she gets braver, she swipes one of Thor’s enormous hoodies and meets his chuckle with a defiant grin and a promise to return it later. She can’t explain it but it makes her feel more connected to them all, helps her to relax around them. And… it’s nice to wear someone else’s psychological armour for a change.

Then one of Natasha's socks goes missing.

She remembers taking it out of the washing machine, but it’s not in her room. It’s from one of her favourite pairs, too. In the end she gives up because they have an Avengers meeting today. They sit around the table and listen to Fury drone on about “teamwork” and “public image”. Thor and Clint are not-so-subtly playing noughts and crosses whilst Steve tries to catch their eye so he can scold them.

Bruce shifts beside her, crossing one leg over his knee. His pant leg hikes up, revealing that he’s wearing a navy blue sock with kittens on it. _Her_ sock.

When she looks up, he’s watching her with the hint of a smirk on his lips. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that she’s never seen before. The smug bastard knows she can’t say anything until this meeting is over.

Somewhere during this thought, her brain conflates _my sock_ and _Bruce_ with _my Bruce._ Hmm. Maybe she’ll let him keep it for a while.

Natasha has endured enough prank wars with Clint to know that the only way to win is to keep playing. She steals Bruce’s terrible Hawaiian shorts and wears them to a team sparring session. Bruce gets so distracted that he accidentally punches Steve in the face.

But even though she watches her laundry like a hawk when Bruce comes in, he always manages to take something of hers too. He’ll casually scratch his ankle or retie his shoelaces when she enters a room, and she’ll see him wearing her red socks with spiders on them, or her tiny white ankle socks that look ridiculously tight on him. They never address it in person but it becomes a silent game between them, and one that Natasha is determined to win.

Bruce presents himself as cautious, quiet, and controlled and his clothes reflect that, but the more Natasha pokes gently at his edges, the more he reveals himself to her. Underneath the sarcasm is a thoughtful soul who takes delight in the simple things and has a sense of fun to rival Clint’s. He’s just a little more hesitant about showing it.

In turn, Natasha finds herself opening up around him. These days, she wears so many personalities she’s not sure what’s hers anymore, but she knows that she likes Bruce and that his quirkiness resonates with her own.

The day after she borrows his lab coat, he flashes her a smile at lunchtime. As he’s crouching to open a kitchen cupboard, she sees a flash of something dark and lacy at his ankle. And dammit, she wants to laugh but she can’t say anything because the others are here too.

When they’re finally alone together, she marches up to him and leans in close enough to kiss him.

‘If you stretch my stockings,’ she murmurs an inch from his lips, ‘they’ll never find your body.’

A lovely, dark smile stretches across his lips. ‘Are you threatening me, Ms Romanov?’

She reaches up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, ‘Keep messing with me and find out.’

For the first time, his laugh sounds genuine.

Natasha doesn’t have much green in her wardrobe. The occasional emerald dress, if she’s looking to turn heads at a party, but it’s never seemed a practical colour.

She starts wearing it on missions. A pair of lime trainer socks, an olive cardigan. Hulk is green in the literal sense, but the colour also reminds her of Bruce. It makes her think of pine forests and herbal teas.

‘What’s with all the green lately?’ he asks one morning as they watch their clothes slosh around in circles.

‘I wanted to try something different.’ She wore a pastel green t-shirt this morning because she knew he’d be here with her today. ‘Do you like it?’

Bruce's eyes glance guiltily down her body. ‘Is that the only reason?’

She steps a little closer to him. ‘Let’s just say it caught my eye.’

Natasha has seduced enough people to inhabit a small town. She knows how to fake interest, how to flirt, how to flaunt or play coy. Right now, she could reach up to stroke his cheek, or playfully make innuendos and sit provocatively on the bench. It’s second nature. It’s training. It’s instinct.

But that’s not what she wants this to be.

So she stands there, looking at him, hoping he’ll know what the next move should be. Without her armour, without objectives, she doesn’t know what to do.

Bruce stares back uncertainly, lips pursed as if in worry. He smells like fresh laundry and comfort and something she wants but isn’t sure how to have. ‘What are you doing, Natasha?’ he asks softly.

She swallows. ‘What do you want me to do?’

He chews his lower lip. She knows how it would feel to hug him; she’s borrowed every piece of clothing he’s currently wearing. But it would be different to hold the warm body snuggled inside that sweater. ‘Natasha, I – ‘

_‘Your wash cycle is complete, Doctor.’_

Bruce backs away, face reddening. ‘I’m just… gonna…’ He nearly trips over the bench in his haste.

Natasha watches him gather up his things and leave. When he’s gone, she looks towards the ceiling. ‘JARVIS?’

_‘Yes, Ms Romanov?’_

‘You’re a cock-blocker.’

_‘I apologise.’_

Bruce is different around her after that. When she enters a room, he looks up guiltily before returning to whatever he’s doing with exaggerated concentration. He might be good at hiding himself but around Natasha his façade cracks, and he smiles and blushes and stutters in her presence.

Natasha isn’t much better. Around Bruce, she forgets what she’s saying mid-sentence and spills coke down her front because he told a joke that wasn’t even funny.

Clearly, they’re both on the same page here. Even Clint has gotten bored of making jokes about it and moved on to ribbing Steve about his Twitter page (Steve even called it @starspangledman so really he asked for it). Natasha is tired of hinting. How much more obvious does she need to be?

On Saturday, she heads down to the laundry room and goes about her business as usual, loading up machines with used disguises and sweaty gym clothes.

Bruce comes down five minutes later, just as she knew he would. He wanders over, stops, then gasps softly.

Natasha straightens up, raising an eyebrow. ‘Something wrong?’ She’s wearing his soft, coffee-coloured sweater with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of Hulk-torn jeans and some stripey socks with atom patterns.

She’s also wearing dark green underwear. But he doesn’t need to know that just yet.

There’s no mistaking the possessive spark in his eyes as he stares at her, drinking her in. ‘Did you run out of clothes again?’ he says finally, aiming for casual but his tone landing just a little deeper.

She stuffs her hands in the pockets. ‘Does it bother you?’ she asks innocently.

He wanders over to her, an amused smile on his lips. ‘You’re not going to give up on this, are you?’

Natasha grins. ‘It’s so _comfortable_ being you.’

Bruce laughs and shakes his head. ‘I’ve never heard anyone say that before.’ He takes her in longingly, wringing his hands.

‘Hey.’ She steps closer and takes hold of them, gently pulling them apart. Bruce's hands are warm, and so small compared to the Hulk’s. There are callouses on his palms, and a freckle on his left index finger. She traces a white scar on the back of his hand. ‘Where’d this one come from?’

Bruce seems to melt a little under her touch, and some of the tension in his shoulders falls away. ‘We had a stray cat break into one of the college labs. It wasn’t too pleased to be picked up. One of the professors took it in once we figured out how to tame it.’

They stand there for a moment, just holding hands whilst Natasha's washing churns in the background. She brushes her thumbs over his knuckles and wonders how many stories he could tell. They both have plenty of scars.

Bruce whispers, ‘I really like you.’

The breath leaves her in a soft, shy laugh. Her training tells her to say something smart and aloof and sexy, but she doesn’t want to. So she leans forward and rests her head on his shoulder, breathing in all the subtle little smells that only Bruce has: tea and incense and old books and floral detergent. ‘I really like you too,’ she murmurs, muffled by the thick wool of his shoulder.

He curls an arm around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. ‘Are you sure about this?’

When she places her hand on his chest, she can feel his heart beating. Not fast, but hard. ‘Can you think of anyone harder to convince?’

When she finally looks up, the worry has gone from Bruce's eyes. His smile is as soft as the sweater he’s wearing.

She kisses him gently, hesitantly, in a way that she’s never kissed anyone before. There’s no performance here, nothing to prove. No mission. She kisses him because she wants to and because Bruce understands what it’s like to always be pretending.

It feels so good to just be herself, whoever that may be.

Bruce lets her lead, his hands wandering down her back to stroke the fabric of her stolen sweater. He lets her back him up against the washing machine, and his lips part eagerly when she probes with an inquisitive tongue. For a little while, the world shrinks to just the two of them.

‘You should wear my clothes more often,’ he says huskily when they finally come up for air.

Natasha smirks and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. ‘I knew you liked it.’

Bruce is wearing the biggest smile she’s ever seen. ‘I’ve given up trying to hide from you.’

‘Good. You’re cute when you’re yourself.’ She leans into his embrace, engulfed in the warmth of him.

‘Well, I still have ten minutes before my washing’s done…’

Natasha grins and pulls him in closer. ‘There’s a lot we could do in ten minutes.’


End file.
